Their stares locked, burning through each other like a badly rated action movie's slow-motion climax. Zach was dangerously close—close enough to shove his lips against hers, close enough to touch her in ways that would make both of their hearts file formal complaints.
He had provoked her once, only to realize that if that escalated, he would never win—not against the ridiculous circumstances that had them sprawled on the floor like some awkward modern art installation.
Zach forced himself to clamp down on every single explicit impulse. He reminded himself, sternly, that Ava was pregnant—with Zeke's child. Not his. Very important distinction. Jaw clenched, robe adjusted to cover the most scandalous parts, Zach stood. Not a word. Not a gesture. Not a heroic hand to help her up. He simply exited, leaving Ava blinking at the closed door like a dazed, hormonal pigeon.
